


Trust

by zalrb



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Romance, F/M, Light Angst, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2019-07-06 22:23:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15895314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zalrb/pseuds/zalrb
Summary: Jon returns to Winterfell with Daenerys at his side only to discover that there is unresolved and unspoken tension between himself and Sansa. Will they finally give voice to the chemistry that has been simmering beneath the surface between the two of them since her escape from the Boltons?





	1. Trust

**Author's Note:**

> This is a one-shot right now but I can be persuaded to write more if it's requested.

Sansa watched as Jon led Daenerys through the grounds. The way they walked next to each other, close enough to just barely touch, made her jaw tighten in a way she was unaccustomed to. Sansa had experienced many novel quirks since the arrival of the Dragon Queen; something about her, about always seeing Jon with her invoked in Sansa a frosty disposition that hardened her and frightened those who witnessed the change, the shift to a stoniness that made her almost statuesque. She didn’t know how long she’d been staring at them before Jon looked up and saw her standing on the balcony.

Their eyes connected for a moment and Sansa felt a bit of her chill melt, a quick flutter of her heart that wasn’t uncommon whenever she and Jon looked at each other but still caught her by surprise whenever it tickled her chest. She turned away, leaning her back against the railing and nearly started when a few minutes later, he came toward her, joining her on the balcony. 

They said nothing for a few moments.

“She’s quite beautiful,” said Sansa finally. “Your silver-haired queen.”

The neutrality of her tone didn’t fool Jon; in fact it betrayed the depth of her anger at him and caused his hands to tremor with anxiety. “Sansa…”

“Before I sentenced him to die, Lord Baelish suggested her beauty is what made you bend the knee,” she said. “That seemed too common a reason for you but perhaps it’s a weakness in Stark men. To follow beautiful women to their doom.”

Jon looked sharply at her. “Do you really think I would put all the North at risk because I thought a woman was beautiful? Do you really think I would put you at risk for something like that?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore,” said Sansa.

Her words were a pang in his chest, a painful ache that made him flinch. “How could you say that?”

“What do you expect me to say, Jon, you didn’t consult any of the Northern houses, you didn’t consult me. You never consult me.”

Slowly, Sansa’s frigidity gave way to a rising in her chest, a rising that threatened to scorch upon its release.

“Sansa, my reasons are—”

“Are what?” she said severely. “Now you want to consult with me? After the fact?”

“Will you not let me get a word in?” said Jon.

“Why should I when you didn’t afford me the same courtesy?”

“That isn’t fair.”

“At least we agree on that! I suppose you didn’t know that everyday for weeks I would look for a raven from you? For all I know you could’ve been dead or held prisoner never to return. But I suppose you never thought about that? I suppose it’s easy to forget the people you left behind when you venture so far?”

The words were spilling from Sansa’s mouth fuelled more by anger than actual concern; it was hard for her to discern where this rage sprang from, it was a sense of betrayal certainly but a betrayal that felt more primal than logical and it compelled her to keep shouting.

“I thought that leaving the North in my care meant that you finally trusted me enough—”

“Do not talk to me about trust,” said Jon, his voice rising. He felt his incredulity swell into anger, anger at her presumption, at her charge that he didn’t trust her, that he didn’t carry her with him wherever he went. “You are the one who isn’t trusting me, Sansa.”

“And how should I trust you? As a king who abandoned his people or as a brother who abandoned his family.”

“You should trust me as a man!” he yelled. He paused. Sansa’s eyes widened imperceptibly and Jon felt a nervousness roil in his gut but he continued speaking.

“You should trust me as a man who tries to do what’s best, who tries to take his duty seriously. Every decision I make, I have you in mind! I bent the knee to Daenerys because I believe she can make the world a better place, a better place for all of us, a better place for you! The moment you came to the Wall, I swore that I would do everything I could to protect you and —”

“Oh for Goodness Sake, Jon, I am not your helpless little sister who is in need of —”

“I don’t try to protect you because I think you’re helpless, I try to protect you because of how much you mean to me, Sansa! Can you really not tell the difference?”

“Can you really not understand that it’s hard to see the difference when you don’t respect me enough to involve me in your decisions?”

“Do you really believe that? That I don’t respect you, that I don’t admire you for surviving everything that you have? There isn’t anyone I respect more than you!”

“Except her,” said Sansa coldly, taking a step to walk away.

Jon turned her around, his hands grasping her shoulders so he could look her in the eye with all of his intent and sincerity, he burned for her to understand the intensity of his affection and knew he would hold her gaze until she understood it in her bones. She stared back at him, her expression guarded but her green eyes shining with what Jon recognized as vulnerability, a vulnerability that inflamed his desire for her to understand. It was strange. He didn’t have this impulse with Arya or Bran; his affection for them, protectiveness of them, it was deep-rooted but not nearly as severe. It was a unique feeling, one he didn’t even have for Daenerys. And then he wondered why that mattered, why he compared the emotions he felt for the two women when one was most certainly, absolutely, without a doubt brotherly.

“I won’t say that Daenerys and I don’t share something. We do. I can’t quite describe it but it’s there, I won’t lie to you. But … but …”

Jon’s eyes searched Sansa’s face; his skin was flushed red with heat even in the Northern cold, his heart beat so fast it was making him light-headed. 

“But nothing and no one will ever come between us, Sansa. Nothing and no one will ever distract me from my duty to the North and … and my duty to you. Do you understand?” 

Sansa stayed where she was for a moment, captive in Jon’s gaze, and then she pulled herself out of his grasp, turning on her heel to head back inside. Perhaps when she was alone she would remember how to breathe again.

Jon sagged against the railing. He felt strangely winded. Exhausted. Empty. And yet his entire body was humming from the impact of the argument. The sensation distracted him to the point that it took him a few gasps of breath to realize that Daenerys was standing on the other end of the balcony.

“Daenerys,” he said.

She walked up to him with slow, deliberate steps, skimming her fingers along the ledge. “Your eldest sister?” she inquired. “Sansa?”

“Yes,” said Jon. “You heard us?”  
“Difficult not to.”

Jon nodded. He glanced at her and laughed in confusion. “What’s that look?”

“Nothing, it’s only…” Daenerys smiled but Jon could tell that she wasn’t actually amused. “You are an earnest person.” She tilted her head slightly. “It’s what drew me to you. But I don’t think I have ever seen you quite so affected in the time that I’ve known you.”

“It’s Sansa,” he said. “She has a way of bringing out my passions is all.” 

Daenerys nodded. “And you her it seems,” she said before walking back the way she came.

Jon watched her go and looked in her direction long after she’d left the balcony. He couldn’t shake her shrewd eyes from his mind; and more than that, he couldn’t shake the feeling that perhaps she was right, to speak of him and Sansa with such a knowing tone.


	2. An Entirely Different Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emotions fly, passions erupt and confusions intensify when Sansa and Jon have a feast for Daenerys Targaryen. 
> 
> *Note* I was inspired to do a second part after watching the teaser. I’m not heavy into GoT, like I’m not too good with Houses and with customs etc. etc. so bear with me. I hope you guys enjoy it anyway :)

Daenerys understood the intent of it all — the feast held in her honour. It was supposed to be a joyous occasion, a welcome to the North, a display of good will and benevolence; a chance for the lords to see her and know her and revel with her before they embarked on the fight of their lives. It was a step in understanding why their king bent the knee to her. She could discern every objective Jon had with the feast but the mood of the occasion was far from warm and farther from welcoming.

Indeed, this was partly because the North did not take to her as immediately as Jon had hoped and assured her they would, but she had expected resistance. She had expected skepticism and resentment at his decision, it would have been naïve not to. What she had not expected was the silence between Jon and his sister, Sansa. Or perhaps that wasn’t entirely true. From what she had been told of Lady Stark, from the way Jon’s eyes brightened with a fire so different from his tired dejection when he spoke of her, Daenerys knew before meeting her that Sansa Stark was a strong-willed young woman, clever and wary — she would not welcome her brother’s decision so easily. It was the _type_  of silence between Jon and Sansa that struck Daenerys. It wasn’t huffy and petulant, a squabble between two siblings. No, this silence was alive with a tension that made Daenerys feel like an interloper. There was a charge in their non-communication that was almost electric; a seething quality that if Daenerys hadn’t known any better, she would think she was intruding upon a lover’s quarrel. It was hard not to feel indignant. However, she could tell that where Bran was Jon’s softness and Arya was Jon’s heart, Sansa was his world: no one meant to him what she did and she was the one who needed to be swayed above all others.

           “Lady Stark,” said Daenerys looking past Jon to Sansa sitting next to him. “I must express again what an honour it is to meet you.”

           Sansa smiled although her eyes remained as icy as they did when they had greeted each other in the courtyard. “Thank you,  _your Grace.”_

           When she didn’t continue speaking and only put a piece of chicken in her mouth, Daenerys bit back her affront and swallowed her desire to rise to Sansa’s strategically snide “your Graces”.

           She continued. “Jon has told me quite a lot about you on our journey here.”

           At this, Sansa stopped eating and turned to Daenerys without so much as a glance to Jon. “You must forgive me,  _your Grace,_  for you have me at a disadvantage. Jon has not told me a single thing about  _you.”_

           Jon gagged on his wine and glared at Sansa who refused to look at him, which only inflamed his anger. His agitation was peculiar, a hangover from the argument they’d had in the afternoon and that surprised him. Surely, he should be angry at Sansa for insulting their guest, for disguising contempt as civility. After all he did care for Daenerys and had wanted her to feel welcome. But Sansa’s contempt wasn’t what bothered him, it was the accusation beneath her contempt. The accusation that Jon had acted without thinking about the North, without thinking about  _her_ ; the charge that he had chosen Daenerys above his people and not for his people; Sansa’s wordless allegation that he forgot her. As if he ever could. As if he ever wanted to. They had already gone one round over the subject but inside, Jon was screaming for a second.  

“So then you have not heard anything about me?” said Daenerys.

“There are stories, of course,” said Sansa. “Daenerys Stormborn, the Conqueror.”

She picked up her goblet and a dozen lords stood up from their seats and rose their glasses to her. When Sansa raised hers as well and took a sip of wine, the lords drank afterwards and sat back down.

           Daenerys was impressed despite herself.  “You sound as if you disapprove.”

Sansa looked at her pointedly. “I trust in all decisions my brother makes and he trusted in a conqueror, which means that I must trust in you too. Forgive me if I gave off an air of disapproval,” she said.  

Jon felt a sense of gratitude and appreciation that Sansa hadn’t challenged or undercut his authority in front of Daenerys and the lords like she might have done not too long ago. He even felt somewhat …  _flattered_  at the protectiveness, the slight defensiveness in her tone, at the implication that she and him shared everything together and the idea of discord was absurd. However, he knew it was all for appearance, that she didn’t trust his decision, that she didn’t trust him at all right now and that only deepened his fury.

Sansa didn’t care about his fury. She could feel it, his sense of betrayed anger. But his anger was no match for her own rage at him bringing the Targaryen woman to the North, pledging himself to her, putting her above all others. Putting her above … Sansa took another sip of wine, her eyes remaining on the room at large before her.  

Daenerys glanced at Jon and Sansa. They sat next to each other and yet made no contact, they may as well have been sitting by themselves and yet. And yet Daenerys could sense the wordless conversation between them. She would be truly shocked if the entire room couldn’t sense it as well, their passion was loud. Although, she thought to herself, they would never qualify this as passion, they would see it as anger. But what they were silently exchanging was anything but anger. It was love masked as outrage.

“Are there any dances at these feasts?” she asked.

Jon raised his eyebrows. “Dances? Er, well …. perhaps, but we don’t usually—”

“I’m sure we can make an exception for  _Her Grace,”_ said Sansa, finally looking at Jon. “This is a feast in her honour after all. We should adhere to her requests.”

Daenerys smiled and bowed her head courteously and Sansa bowed her head in return before looking to the musicians to signal a change.

There was a flurry of footsteps as servants rearranged certain tables to make space for dancing and once the floor was cleared, the music picked up to a tempo for a dance. Applause erupted from the other guests and Jon smiled in response.

Cley Cerwyn suddenly approached the table. He bowed in front of Jon. “Your Grace.”

Jon nodded. “Lord Cerywn.”

He turned to Daenerys who raised her head slightly. Cley lowered his head in response but turned to Sansa before waiting for a response from Daenerys.

“Lady Sansa,” he said.

She regarded him.

“Would you do me the honour?”

Sansa smiled and moved to push out her chair. A servant stepped behind her and pulled it out for her.

“Most certainly, my Lord,” she said, as she stood up.

The other guests clapped once again as Sansa made her way to Cley but Jon couldn’t bring himself to join the applause. There was a faint ringing in his ears and he somehow felt as if he couldn’t breathe, like his chest tightened.

“They make an attractive pair,” said Daenerys to Jon.

           He didn’t respond.

           Cley bowed and Sansa curtsied and they began to dance to the music, twirling around each other, while the guests watched, enraptured. It was odd to Jon that his first reaction to seeing Sansa’s hand in Lord Cerwyn’s was … it wasn’t exactly protectiveness, it was something baser. Something he couldn’t pinpoint. 

He picked up his goblet and gulped down the wine.

Sansa looked beautiful out there. Then again she had always been a graceful dancer; poised and dignified but still looked as if she were genuinely having fun. It had been that ways since they were children. For a brief moment, Jon imagined himself as her partner and wondered if she would look nearly as happy dancing with him. As quickly as the thought entered his mind, he cast it out, puzzled as to what it was doing in his head in the first place. 

For the next few moments, Jon wasn’t lulled into that bizarre vision again but now that he had pictured it, he couldn’t watch Sansa smile and move with Cley without that baser emotion grabbing hold of him. He could hardly sit still. His heart pounded, the room was too hot, he felt faintly nauseous as if he had eaten his food too quickly. He needed to leave, he couldn’t stand to stay seated for another second.

           “Forgive me, my Queen,” he said, turning to Daenerys. “I must step out for a few moments. Only a few.” He kissed Daenerys’s hand and after the servant pulled out his chair, left the table.

In her periphery, Sansa saw Jon leave his seat and felt a rush of vindication but now that he had left the room, she no longer felt the need to dance. Truth be told, she wasn’t all that sure why she had insisted on Daenerys’s request, why she took up Lord Cerywn’s offer at all. She just knew she had wanted Jon to see her and was pleased when he could no longer watch — if that was the reason he chose to leave. Her reactions and emotions had been confusing her all day and as if to intensify her confusion, she now felt the urge to stop the dance midway to fulfill the need she felt to find Jon and confront him. But she knew she couldn’t do that and continued to smile and move with Lord Cerwyn.

Finally, the melody ended and Sansa curtsied once more as Cley bowed to a loud applause. A few lords and their ladies started walking to the open space and Sansa took the opportunity to follow Jon to what she assumed would be his room.  

When she walked in, it was to find Jon pacing, his face taught, his hands clenched into fists. She shut the door but spoke without any preamble.

           “You cannot leave your guest in the middle of a feast, it is rude,” she said, her voice hard.

           He continued to pace.  _“Our_  guest,” he corrected sharply. “And don’t act like you care about being rude to her.”

           “I care about appearances.”

           “Your actions would prove otherwise,” he muttered.

           Sansa’s eyes widened. “And what does that mean?”

           Jon shook his head dismissively. “Nothing.”

           “No, Jon,” she said, walking father into the room. “What does that mean?”

           Jon stopped pacing and whirled on her. “You are the Lady of Winterfell—”

            _“Am_ I?” she said, cutting him off. “I thought you had given that title to Daenerys Stormborn.”

           “Is that what this is about then?” said Jon. “Are you trying to - to upset me because of her?”

           “And how would a dance with Lord Cerwyn upset you, Jon?”

           He was wrong-footed by the question but quickly rallied. “It is not that you danced with him, it is the manner with which you did!”

           She laughed harshly. “It can’t be any worse than the lovesick way you look at  _her.”_

           “Sansa, I do not—”

           “Oh you are not _stupid_ , Jon, you know exactly what I mean. I’ve watched you and her and—”

           Jon blinked. “You’ve watched us?”

           “I—” Panic swelled in Sansa’s chest.

“I am only saying that you have made it plain that you forfeited our freedom because you find her beautiful!”

           “Do not start that again,” said Jon dangerously, closing the gap between them. “I did not forfeit our freedom, I solidified it and diminishing my efforts to keep our people safe, reducing the decisions I have made to whether or not I find a woman beautiful is insulting to me as a king and as a Northerner.”  

           “It is insulting to me as a Northerner to see the way you look at a foreigner.”

           Jon stared at her incredulously. “Your mother was foreigner.”

           “Is that your excuse? Father did not bend the knee to my mother!”

           “You are changing the issue!”

           Sansa cocked her head. “The issue?”

           “Yes! The issue of the manner in which you danced—”

“Jon, I  _smiled_ —”

_“I did not like it!”_

           There was a pause.

“My dancing with Lord Cley was merely a gesture of good faith,” said Sansa, trying to ignore the curious flutter in her chest. “If you do not remember, the Cerwyns needed a bit of persuasion to pledge fealty to us, I simply want to maintain the relationships we have.”

           “Oh is that what were you doing?” said Jon bitterly. “You weren’t preening, trying to get yourself a husband?”

           The air shifted dramatically and Sansa stilled at Jon’s words. A rush of guilt took over him and he suddenly hated himself.  

“Sansa, I—”

“Do you—” she clenched her jaw.  “Do you truly believe that I am anywhere near ready to be married again?”

He shook his head frantically. “I’m sorry.”

Sansa didn’t look fragile, she looked hardened, like she walled herself in, the coldness that only seemed to dissipate in his presence cocooned her again and Jon knew he would stab himself in the gut if it would make any difference to her.

_“Sansa.”_

He rushed up to her and took her hands in his. “I am sorry. I spoke without thinking,” he said desperately. He held onto her tighter. “Sansa, please forgive me.” He pressed his forehead against hers and squeezed his eyes shut. “ _Please_ forgive me.”

Sansa sighed and after a few seconds closed her eyes too, her thumb stroking his as they clenched each other’s hands. It was surprisingly easy to forgive him, to feel safe even when they argued like this, to … to … to drink him in …

The door wrenched open and Sansa and Jon sprang apart. Arya was too busy nagging to see them. “Do you know we can hear you yelling all the way down the—”

She stared at Jon and Sansa, feet away from each other, breathing heavily, faces red. She narrowed her eyes. “What are you two doing?”

“Nothing,” said Jon.

“Arguing,” said Sansa. “You said you heard us.”

Arya kept her eyes narrowed.

“I should get back,” said Jon.

“Of course, can’t keep our guest waiting,” said Sansa sardonically.  

Jon glanced back at her, jaw clenched like he was gaining a third wind but he shook his head and walked out of the room. Arya was here now and — and Sansa knew that having an audience meant they couldn’t let their passions take ahold of them like they did in private. She exhaled deeply and then looked at Arya who still regarded her with a shrewd look.

“What are you looking at,” she mumbled.

           “I suppose there was never anywhere to notice before now,” said Arya. “But no one quite nettles you like him. Not even me.”

Sansa shook her head. “You and I … we have a different relationship.” She smiled. “You’re annoying in an entirely different way.” She pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. “An entirely different way…”


	3. Passion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come to a head when Sansa discovers what happened on the boat journey to Winterfell.

Sansa could hear it as she strode through the corridors. Giggling. Whispering. It was coming from an empty chamber. Choruses of “shh!” “shh!” and more guffawing. She was on her way to a council with Jon and the others but her curiosity got the best of her and she stopped outside of the room in question, its door half-closed, and saw a few servants huddled together.

            “I mean, it makes sense doesn’t it? Nothing makes a man lose his senses like a good roll in the hay.”

            The laughing stopped the minute Sansa made her presence known and the servants disassembled from a circle and formed a line, bowing their heads to her.

            “Lady Stark,” they intoned.

            She closed the door fully and walked closer to where they stood. “What is it that you are all talking about?”

            No one said anything. She sighed.

            “I _know_ that you’re all gossiping in here, just tell me what it is.”

Two servants exchanged nervous glances. “Forgive us, Lady Stark---”

“You’re not in any trouble,” she said with a slight smile. “I’m just … curious. Indulge me.”

A woman started to speak. “Lady Stark, we … … we heard a rumour---”

“Yes,” said Sansa, nodding. “That much has been made clear.” She regarded them. “Out with it.”

There was another pause before the woman continued speaking. “One of the servants, I’m not sure who exactly, heard some of the boat crew talking,” she said. “And…”

Sansa stared at her. Her heart began to race as dread creeped up on her and started squeezing her chest: maybe she didn’t want to hear the answer. Maybe it was a rumour that would shatter something inside of her. It was the only explanation for the sense of impending doom that was disrupting her body.

“His Grace, Lord Snow, he and the Targaryen woman … they … they had _relations_ on the boat…”

“That is the gossip anyway, my Lady,” said a man.

Nothing could have prepared Sansa for those words; they struck her like a slap and she felt winded with the impact. More than that she felt betrayed in a way she hadn’t expected. There was an intimacy to her sense of betrayal, an intimacy that shook her because it made her feel as if Jon had been unfaithful rather than traitorous, _adulterous_ even and that only spawned a familiar confusion in Sansa, the one that had plagued her after every interaction she’d had with Jon since he came back.

It was as if her insides were being ripped apart with the whirlwind of conflicting emotions and all she could do to hold herself together was remove herself from them, block herself from the surprising pain and all of its implications, turn herself into steel, into that statuesque demeanour she found herself inhabiting more and more.

 “Thank you, that will be all,” she said. Her jaw tight. “You can get back to your duties.”

“My Lady.”

 

 

Jon sat opposite Daenerys at a long wooden table covered with maps and documents. He was staring down at nothing in particular, stewing in a broody silence that infected the entire room. Daenerys had seen moments of this beforehand but nothing quite so long-lasting.

“It is unlike Sansa to be late,” he said.

Daenerys regarded him. “You’re worried about her?”

“I’m …” He gesticulated. _“Regretful_ that we haven’t been getting along lately.”

“Because of me,” said Daenerys.

“No, because she doesn’t trust me. Because she’s stubborn. Because she doesn’t have faith in my loyalty to---” He cut himself off and shook his head.

Daenerys saw the heartbreak in Jon’s eyes as he said those words, heard the way his voice quickened with frustration and with a need, even then, to make his sister understand his choices --- he was always with Sansa, he carried her with him, and all of their impassioned discussions.

“Well anyone with eyes could see how much you love …” she licked her lips. “The North,” she finished diplomatically. “Perhaps she just needed some time to gain perspective.”

“Well then she would’ve done it after the meeting not before,” said Jon gruffly.

The door opened and he started but when he saw Davos walk in the room, he sat back in his chair, crestfallen.

 “Your Grace,” he said swiftly. He stopped in the middle of the room and spoke just as quickly.

“You need to talk to your crew. They’re undisciplined and they have big mouths.”

Daenerys stood up. “I beg your pardon?”

Jon raised his hands in a calming manner, looking from Daenerys to Davos and then spoke.

“What is it?”

“There seems to be a rumour going around,” said Davos.

Daenerys looked at him, her head cocked upward and Jon narrowed his eyes at Davos’ awkward expression.

“A rumour that you two had …”

Jon didn’t need Davos to finish the sentence. Everything inside of him shifted. He could hear Daenerys scoff at the accusations, at Davos discussing methods to suppress the gossip but their words were distant echoes in his ears. He suddenly felt sick with worry, with anxiety.

“Did Sansa hear?” he whispered.

They continued to talk.

 He cleared his throat. “Did Sansa hear?” he said more loudly.

“Uh…” Davos shrugged. “I’m not sure if any of your siblings heard, Your Grace, right now it seems to be confined to the common folk, I ---”

“I need to find her,” said Jon. He looked to Daenerys. “Excuse me.”

 

 

Jon walked into Sansa’s room without knocking, closing the door behind him. She was sitting at her desk, looking over documents. Although he was restless, he didn’t dare speak but she did nothing to acknowledge his presence in her chambers. He wanted to pace but he also wanted to stay still, he wanted to shout at her to look at him but he also wanted to give her the first word. He was unusually ambivalent and unusually frazzled and he couldn’t understand the guilt that was the source of his agitation.

Finally, she spoke.

“Do you love her?” she asked quietly, her eyes still on the document in front her.

“Sansa----”

“Do. You. _Love._ Her.”

Jon sighed and hung his head then took a couple of steps closer to her desk. Finally she looked at him. Her eyes blazing with that wintry fire he so admired, that wintry fire that contradicted the coolness of her speech. She shrugged her shoulders.

“I don’t know if it would make this mean something or feel like it means something if you were in love with her.”

“Sansa, stop it.”

“Well surely,” she leaned back in her chair and shook her head, “if you are going to give away our autonomy, our freedom, it should be for love, should it not?”

_“Sansa.”_

She stood up and slammed her hands on the desk. “You tried to make me feel like a fool for questioning your motivations for this decision.”

“Well you _were_ being a bit foolish,” Jon snapped back. “You’re being foolish right now!”

“Am I?” she yelled. Her pretence of aloofness cracking. “Because the last time someone from our family made a decision based on a woman, he ended up dead! My mother ended up dead! Northerners ended up dead! I told you you had to be smarter than Father, that you had to be smarter than Robb! And you’re making the same mistakes---”

Jon slammed his hands on the desk now too, his face inches away from Sansa’s. “I am not making the same mistakes!” he yelled. “I would never do anything to put the North at risk, to put Arya and Bran at risk, to put _you_ at risk, Sansa! How many times do we have to have the same argument?”

_“Until you convince me!”_ The shrillness of her own yelling surprised Sansa, it was a mark of how personal she was taking the entire situation and she tried to regain some emotional distance.

 “Do you know how weak this makes us look? The King in the North now a puppet because he doesn’t think with his head!”

“Sansa, that’s _enough!”_ He took a beat. “I would never---!”

“Oh, you’re too blinded that you don’t even see it!”

Swiftly, Sansa wrenched her eyes from Jon’s gaze and turned her back to him, rubbing her forehead with her right hand. She was feverish, her skin was hot to the touch.

“Too blinded to see what?” said Jon.

He waited for a response and when he didn’t get one, something in him compelled him to shout. _“What am I too blinded to see?”_

Sansa whirled around. “That you have chosen her!” she yelled. “Over --- over---” _Me,_ she screamed internally. _You chose an outsider over me! And I_ hate _it and I don’t know why I hate it_ this _much!_

Jon walked around the desk to her, he touched her shoulder but she couldn’t bear the thought of him holding her with the same hands he held _her_ and she stepped out of his reach. While Jon itched to try again, he stayed where he was, giving her the space that she demanded, as he had and would continue to ensure that never again would she be touched unless she’d wanted to be.

She stared at him, breathing heavily and he shook his head, doing his best to calm the rage within him. He took a step toward her and stopped, maintaining a distance. “I---” he pressed his lips together. “I never knew you thought so little of me.”

She rolled her eyes. “That isn’t what I’m saying.”

“Isn’t it?” he countered. “If you so … passionately believe that I would put everything and everyone at risk for something as crude as sex or as selfish as love then I ---”

“So you _do_ love her,” she said severely, her eyes flashing.

He looked at her wearily. “Look, I loved a woman once,” he said.  “A Wildling woman, her name was Ygritte and even my love for her couldn’t come before my duty to the Night’s Watch, what makes you think anything can come before my duty to ---” _You._ “My people?”

“You love her,” she repeated.

Jon gritted his teeth, opening and closing his fists. “Why do you keep _saying_ that?”

“Why don’t you deny it?” she retorted.

He looked at her, his mouth agape, as something --- a new emotion --- tickled his chest. Something that felt a bit like hope or a bit like delight.

“The possibility bothers you that much?” he said.

“Maybe no more than how much seeing me dance with Lord Cerwyn bothered you,” she said harshly.

Sansa didn’t know what she was saying before she’d said it and almost said something to take it back but when she saw the way Jon’s face darkened, she realized this was the reaction she wanted from him.

“Are you saying it’s the same thing?” he asked.

“Which is what exactly? Love or camaraderie?”

“You’re being _impossible,_ Sansa.”

“Either way, it probably isn’t the same, Jon.” Her words were spilling out of her. “Considering that I would never put him before you and you love your silver-haired queened more than----”

 “Than _what?”_ he said, his anger returning. “More than what, Sansa, I want to hear you say it.” He touched her wrist and when she didn’t move away this time, he took both of her hands in his, her nails digging into his skin.

“I want to hear you say your cruelest insult to me!” he said, leaning into her face.

She jutted hers into his. “It isn’t an insult if it’s the truth!”

 “You believing something so stubbornly doesn’t make it true!” he said, holding onto her tighter. “I would _never_ betray you.” He looked at her with an earnestness so fierce it made her legs weak. “I would never --- I would _never_ put anyone else above you! I would never see you in danger _ever_ again. I would never… I would never ---”

Neither of them knew who moved forward first only that they’d come together in a breathless embrace that ignited a spark within both of them. Jon’s hands no longer held Sansa’s, instead they held either side of her face while Sansa’s hands gripped his wrists, her body bowed toward him.

It was a kiss as contradictory as everything before it; the softness of Jon’s lips, the feel of them on her own unwound Sansa as release surged through her --- the taste of her tongue, the way her hands clenched his own filled Jon with an unparalleled relish but these emotions also triggered others, triggered questions they could feel rise within them, triggered more agitation, more … passion --- it did nothing to satiate.

Finally, they parted and Sansa sank toward the desk as Jon walked swiftly over to a wall so he could sag his weight against something solid. Now that they were apart, they could breathe again and they each took in the air with a gluttonous enthusiasm, trying to calm their thundering hearts, dry their teary eyes, still their racing minds. They dared not look at each other because now that they were apart, they could feel the pull between them; within each of them was an urge to snap back together, an urge so intense it was like a humming on their skin.

And afraid of what would happen if they stayed in the same place, afraid at his own longing to find out, to go to her, Jon hastily left the room without looking back to see Sansa gripping the desk with one hand and clutching her chest with the other.


	4. Survival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the kiss has only served to deepen the tensions between Sansa, Jon and Daenerys as Jon finds himself in between a battle of wits between Sansa and Daenerys while harbouring confused yet intense emotions for the former. 
> 
> *Note* I was inspired to do a second part after watching the season 8 premiere because THAT SCENE. I’m not too good with Houses and with customs etc. etc. so bear with me. I hope you guys enjoy it anyway :)

The North was cold.

It was something Daenerys of course expected but Jon’s description of the environment didn’t do its wintry chill any real justice. She was in her bedchambers, standing in front of a large fire and still found that she had to wear layers to keep the coldness from seeping into her bones.  The climate didn’t agree with her. Nor did the people --- the other kind of chill she had to face up here. Jon’s warnings did not do the stubbornness of the Northerners any real justice either, as he’d assured her they would see the honour of her intentions sooner rather than later and that realization still hadn’t come to pass.

Daenerys had only been in Winterfell a little more than a week but she’d expected some kind of progress by now. At first the resistance to her reign was tiring although anticipated but now it was frustrating, she’d felt insulted, and soon, very soon, that sense of insult would morph into rage. She’d been nothing but courteous since arriving in Winterfell, nothing but understanding; she’d attempted to form some kind of bond with Sansa only to be met with insolence.  That was the most aggravating part of it all. She knew that she wouldn’t win the respect or the love of the North until she won the respect or the love of Sansa Stark and Jon would not truly be at peace with himself until he received Sansa’s blessing. It all hinged upon _her._

 She had to wonder, though, if there was something more to Sansa’s resistance. It was in the way she and Jon would look at each other or would not look at each other, it was that electricity she’d felt at the feast a few days before, that electricity that seemed to always be binding them, that seemed to compel them to fight often with each other as a means to release the intensity of its charge. It bothered her but not as much as the fact that she hadn’t seen Jon and Sansa together since the feast. Sansa didn’t make it to the council meeting the afternoon after and when Jon went to bring her to the room, he hadn’t returned. After that day, she hadn’t seen them so much as look at each other and that inflamed her irritation at their poorly hidden intimacy. She had faced hardships in her life, opposition wasn’t new to her but this was the first time she’d come up against what felt like competition and she disliked it, the undercurrent of threat that came with rivalry.

Her mind made up, she summoned her guards in Dothraki and when they opened the door, she told them to find Missandei.

“Yes, Your Grace?” she said, a few moments later.

“Find Tyrion, Varys and Davos, find Jon. Find Lady Sansa. We will finally have that council meeting. It is not a request.”

Missandei nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.”

 

___________

 

Sansa sat at her desk, her back facing the door, and when it opened without a knock, she knew immediately that Jon had come to see her. She couldn’t remember exactly when they had stopped announcing themselves before entering each other’s chambers but it was a habit they’d taken to since before he left for Dragonstone, an intimacy they seemed unable to shake even with all of the awkwardness between them because of what happened a few days before.

His presence in her room made the air feel hot and brought back that flutter in her chest, the one that confused her every time she felt it in his company. She tried not to betray the mess of emotions within her.

“Your Queen has summoned me,” she said.         

“She has _requested_ your presence,” said Jon. “As she has requested mine and Lord Tyrion’s and Varys’ and so on.”

Sansa scoffed. “I never thought I’d see the day when you would be someone’s diplomatic translator.”

“I knew you wouldn’t take this well and that’s why I came,” he said. “I thought it would be better coming from Arya but she seems to dislike Daenerys as much as you do.”

She could hear the weariness in his voice but just beneath that, there was a hint of concern. “Don’t worry, I don’t plan to refuse your paramour,” said Sansa.

She stood up, taking a deep breath in as she did, readying herself to see that face, those sad eyes that softened or glinted when he looked at her, those lips that …

But when she turned around to face him, she saw that Jon’s head was turned slightly to the side, his eyes not meeting her own.  Sansa felt a spark of indignation.

“Did she at least say what the meeting is about?”

Jon shook his head, his eyes lowered to the floor.

“If you had to guess?”

“Her men didn’t say,” he said.

Sansa regarded him, her indignation turning to a wounded anger. “Can’t you even look at me?”

Jon closed his eyes and sighed heavily, his entire body sagging with the weight of it.         

“You’re too ashamed to look at me?” she pressed.

“It’s not that,” said Jon, his voice hoarse but Sansa disregarded him.        

“You leave for weeks and you can’t even send a raven to tell me what you’re doing over there and then you come back telling me, telling all of us, that you did the very thing you said you wouldn’t do when you left but you could look me in the eye then.”

“Sansa---”

“When you betrayed me, when you betrayed us, you didn’t feel ashamed then but---” Sansa almost tripped over her own words trying to talk about the incident, the kiss, the one that she couldn’t help but replay in her head over and over again. “But because of what happened a few days ago, you’re too ashamed to even look at---”

Swiftly, Jon raised his head so could catch Sansa’s gaze, his eyes blazing with a melancholic longing that almost made Sansa clutch her chest.

“It’s not that,” he said again, more forcefully.

                She parted her lips, dizzied by the sincerity of his expression. After a few moments, he squeezed his eyes shut again and wrenched away from her gaze, leaving her chambers to go to the meeting.

 

__________ 

 

Everyone gathered around a large table with Daenerys sitting at the far end and Sansa sitting at the end closest to the door. Jon chose to sit on the left side between both women while Tyrion, Davos and Varys remained on the side opposite him and Missandei and Grey Worm stood behind Daenerys. For a few moments no one said anything and the tension kept everyone on edge and uncomfortable. Finally, Tyrion spoke.

                “Your Grace, I know you called this meeting but I wondered if perhaps I could start us off?”

                Daenerys bent her head in a “yes” and Tyrion nodded.

“I’m sure we can all agree that the morale here isn’t what it could be,” he said. “The Northerners still see you as a foreign invader---”

                “Yes,” said Daenerys flatly. “Even though their King bent the knee to me.”

                “As Lady Mormont pointed out, that doesn’t make Jon a King anymore and it only makes you a Queen in name,” said Sansa, her voice steely cool. “Northerners respect people, leaders especially, who earn their respect.”

                “And bringing you weapons, an army, my two dragons ---”

                “That we can’t feed---”

                “--- isn’t enough to earn the respect of you and your countrymen?” Daenerys continued.

                “Well like you said, like my brother said, he had to renounce the crown in order for you to bring these assets,” said Sansa. “That doesn’t make the North respect you, it makes us resent you.”

                Daenerys narrowed her eyes and Tyrion interjected. “Which brings us back to my point,” he said. “We must prepare for war, we must unite together to face the dead and we can’t do that if the North resents you, Your Grace.”

                “Did you want to speak first to simply tell me things I already know?” said Daenerys.

                Tyrion grinned sheepishly. “Davos, Varys and I, we propose a marriage between Your Grace and Lord Snow, it would unify the North with Her Grace’s people and perhaps pacify the countrymen.”

                Sansa felt something within her still and Jon was stricken with shock. Marriage? He hadn’t expected that. He hadn’t expected to ever be married in his lifetime, not even when he found himself taken with Daenerys, and now the thought of marrying her … it didn’t inspire in him what he believed Tyrion and Davos anticipated, it inspired uneasiness. At that moment, the memory he’d tried and failed to bury for days, the memory of his kiss with Sansa flashed before Jon’s mind and his uneasiness grew.

                “Marriage?” It was all Daenerys could say.

                “It seems the most logical solution,” said Davos now.

                Jon chanced a glance at Sansa, he wanted, he _needed_ to gauge her reaction, to see if he would be met with frostiness or ire, an aching pain or a riotous fury, but she wasn’t looking at him. 

“Lord Tyrion,” she said. “Did our marriage do anything to unify anyone?”

Jon shifted in his seat, grimacing slightly at the topic at hand. He didn’t want to hear anything about their marriage.

“Did it stop your family from massacring mine? Did it give the Lannisters the North?”

“My Lady,” said Tyrion in his most diplomatic voice. “The circumstances of our forced union were quite different from what we are proposing and why, for one thing, there seems to be genuine affection between the two people in question.”

At this Sansa said nothing but felt herself inhabit her icy demeanour.

“Lady Stark,” said Davos. “If Jon were to marry Her Grace, he would be a King and that is the issue that the North is refusing to compromise on.”

Sansa smiled humourlessly and then turned her attention to Daenerys. “When this war is over and won and if you manage to best Cersei when it _is_ over, do you plan on ruling from the North?”

Daenerys raised an eyebrow. “My claim is to the Iron Throne, I came for the Iron Throne, it should then follow that I rule from the Iron Throne.”

“As I suspected,” said Sansa. “And I doubt you would be partial to a husband who is not at your side in King’s Landing.”

Daenerys didn’t respond.

“So what you’re proposing, my Lords,” said Sansa, looking back at Tyrion, Davos and Varys, “is to take Jon away from his home, to take a Northern leader away from the North.”

“Your brother would then be Lord of Winterfell, wouldn’t he?” said Daenerys.

Sana looked at Daenerys pointedly. “If you had said so much as one word to my brother, you would know that Bran has no interest in being Lord, _Your Grace.”_

“Then you would be the Lady of Winterfell,” said Daenerys. “That would suit you would it not?”

“It wouldn’t suit the North. We pledged to follow no other King or Queen than the King or Queen of the North. This does not solve morale,” said Sansa, standing up.

“Lady Stark,” said Daenerys sternly. “I know you do not like or trust me but I am still your Queen and I did not give you permission to leave this room.”

Sansa smiled. “I do not need permission to move freely within my own home.  I made sure I would never have to do that again after I killed Ramsay Bolton.”

And with that, she left.

The room sat in stunned silence for a few seconds before Daenerys turned to Jon.  

“Some would consider what she said treason,” she said, her tone deceptively light.

“She spoke without thinking,” said Jon.

“Your sister doesn’t seem like the kind of woman who says things she doesn’t mean or doesn’t think about carefully.”

Jon had no argument.  “I’ll speak with her.”

“Please do,” said Daenerys. She looked at Jon’s attempt at a relaxed expression and but rather than it eliciting a sympathetic response, it just added another layer to her irritation. She put her hand over his. “She doesn’t have to like me but I _am_ her Queen whether she likes it or not and she will have learn to respect me, otherwise…”

He nodded. “I’ll talk to her now,” he said, standing up. 

After Jon left the room, Tyrion looked at Daenerys.

“What?” she said.

“That could’ve gone better.”

“She’s insubordinate.”

“She’s protective of her homeland, surely that’s understandable? She only wants what’s best for her countrymen.”

Daenerys cocked her head. “You admire her.”

“You would too if you gave yourself the chance,” said Tyrion. “Sansa is intelligent and stronger than many people have given her credit for, it won’t be easy winning her approval but her approval is valuable. _She_ is as valuable an ally as the Tyrells and the Greyjoys were, trust me. I’ve known her since she was little more than a child.”

“When you married her,” said Daenerys matter-of-factly.

“It was a sham marriage,” said Tyrion. “I am only saying that she has survived more than you could imagine.”

“I’m sure I could imagine it,” said Daenerys.

“Then you can also imagine how much she has learned from what she’s survived. Nearly everyone who has underestimated her has ended up dead.”

“I see,” said Daenerys. “Well that’s one more thing we have in common.”

                “The other?”

                Daenerys didn’t answer but looked over to the now empty chair Jon had sat in only moments before.

_____________

 

“Sansa, you can’t just leave in the middle of a council meeting, it’s childish,” said Jon, walking into her room after her and closing the door behind him.

She whirled around. “Do I really have to repeat myself?”

“Daenerys is not the Boltons.”

“Just because you’re in love with her doesn’t make her any less of an invader on our land than the Boltons.”

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “She is not an invader, she is our Queen, she is _the_ Queen and all she asks for is the respect you give your Queen.”

Sansa started to pace. “She doesn’t ask for anything that’s her problem,” she snapped. “What will happen if I don’t bow to her the way you do, will she execute me the way she did the Tarlys?”

At this Jon’s eyes flashed dangerously. “You’ve taken that out of context, they were in battle---”

“Oh and I suppose prisoners aren’t a possibility in battle then? Robb showed mercy whenever he could.” She gestured at Jon. “ _You_ show mercy whenever you can---”

“I wasn’t there, I don’t know what the circumstances were---”

Sansa laughed in disbelief. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised when a husband defends his wife.”

Jon felt both relieved and nervous that she brought up the proposition, it was, he felt, the heart of their argument, the heart of their outpour of emotion but it still scared him to address it directly. They hadn’t even addressed what had happened between them earlier in the week.

“I didn’t know about that proposition, Sansa,” he said.

“Sure.”

Jon took a step closer to her, his tone severe. “I am _telling_ you, I heard it when you did.”

“But you’re considering it?”

He sighed. “I don’t have time to think about that, all of this is useless in the face of what’s coming, the Night King---”

 _“Yes,_ Jon, the Night King!” Sansa yelled. “Winter is here, the dead are coming, we have to prepare for the battle of our lives, I know you think I don’t understand that but I do! _But_ unless you expect all of us to die in the coming war, you also have to think about the future!”

“I _am_ thinking about the future!” said Jon, taking another step closer so that he and Sansa were inches away from each other.

“Sansa.” He looked at her, earnest and distressed and slightly hurt. “Do you really have no faith in me?”

Sansa held his stare, both of them heaving with the fervor of their argument, with the unspoken motivations for their words but even in the height of her anger, in the chaos of her confused jealousy, his sincerity found a way to her heart.

“Of course I do,” she said softly.

Jon’s entire body seemed to exhale in relief and his gaze softened as he looked at her with affectionate gratitude.

“Then please listen to me when I tell you, whether or not I marry Daenerys---”

At those words, Sansa teetered back off into the vortex of her anger. “So you _are_ considering it.”

“Seven hells, will you _listen_ to me?” said Jon, frustrated. “What you said today, about the Boltons, that was treason.”

“I did and said nothing to betray the North or our King,” said Sansa. “That is not treason to me.”

“Sansa---”

“And you trying to sway me to her side by threatening me with treason---”

“I am trying to _save_ you!” He yelled desperately, his expression panicked, almost frenzied as he stepped forward and held her by the arms. Sansa flinched at the height of his tone and Jon glared at her, angry at her for still not realizing how much he cared.

“I’ve survived many things, Sansa, but I will not be able to survive the death of you, do you understand me?” His grip tightened and he repeated himself, louder this time. _“Do you understand me?”_

                Sansa reacted without thinking and leaned forward, kissing Jon square on the mouth. She felt a surge throughout her body, releasing an adrenaline that made her tremble, but she felt Jon shudder, quake at her touch, and realizing what she’d done for a second time, Sansa began to part from him, breathless and slightly embarrassed. She barely took half a step backward before Jon put his hand on the small of her back and pulled her even closer to him so that her hands slid up to his shoulders, their bodies pressed together. He kissed her again and with the conviction of a yearning being realized, a yearning that had simmered within him since their first kiss, causing Sansa to moan slightly, which urged him to press her closer still.  They drowned in their embrace, relished it as the confusion tore them both from the inside and yet they couldn’t bear to separate, for while there was panic, the desire that consumed them felt too natural to cause shame.

                A curt knock. Sansa and Jon began to pull away from one another but the door opened too quickly for them to get enough distance from each other before Ser Davos Seaworth came into the room, talking about mediations between Sansa and Daenerys, stunned silent by the passion he’d just witnessed.


	5. The Happening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon is faced with a difficult decision between his heart and his head. Daenerys becomes increasingly more suspicious of Jon's relationship to Sansa and Sansa must contend with news she may not be ready to hear.

Ser Davos stood awkwardly at the door as Jon and Sansa extricated themselves from their embrace, pushing away from each other, staring in the other direction, at times chancing anxious glances at him. It was silent as he processed what he had just witnessed. He wouldn’t have known it before seeing it but Jon and Sansa Stark embracing with such desire inspired no shock or astonishment and in fact felt natural, looked natural. Davos was surprised by how unsurprising the sight of them together was, how it only served to click into place the energy he’d felt between them since Sansa’s arrival at Castle Black.  And that scared him.

Finally, he spoke.

“Er, if you please, my Lady, may I have a word with His Grace?”

Sansa blinked a few times, her lips parted, her chest heaving with nervousness and then nodded. Davos gave his head a courteous nod but he didn’t move, nor did Jon.  Everyone remained in their spots until Sansa understood that Davos expected her to leave.

                “These are my chambers, Ser Davos,” she said.

                Realization dawned on his face. “Right, of course,” he said, stepping just outside the door. “Your Grace?” 

                For a moment, Jon stayed where he was. He didn’t want to leave. Part of him wanted to remain with Sansa because he felt it strange and somewhat inappropriate to discuss with Davos what he and Sansa hadn’t yet been able to discuss with each other. Another part of him … … another part of him didn’t want to leave because he didn’t want to leave the moment behind, leave the kiss behind. He wanted the chance to continue something he’d yearned for for days, something he felt had been cut short. And that was why he left with Davos without so much as a glance back to Sansa.

                When they reached Jon’s room, Davos closed the door and started questioning him without preamble.

“How long has this been going on?”

“Nothing is going on,” said Jon automatically.

Davos raised an eyebrow. “Beg your pardon, Your Grace---”

“I am not a King anymore,” said Jon wearily. “No need to address me as ‘Your Grace’, Ser Davos.” 

Davos paused. “Well, my Lord, I know what I saw and that wasn’t nothing. That was---” He pressed his lips together. “That was intimate. I had half a mind to leave the room and let you two continue.” 

For the second time that day, Jon had no argument.  “It just happened,” he said.

“So this is the first time?”

Jon didn’t answer right away. “Second.”

“Well there can’t be a third,” said Davos gruffly.

A dangerous expression passed over Jon’s face that made Davos raise his eyebrows. “That bothers you, my Lord?”

Jon didn’t know if he could explain his relationship with Sansa to Davos when he could barely explain it to himself. What happened when he was with her was beyond his ability to express. He’d had a hard enough time telling Sam what it was like to make love, and this, Sansa, it was much more complicated than that. It was born out of an instinct he somehow always felt yet never knew was there until recently --- she called to something in him that was fervent and intense, she was a spark.  

“Well where does Queen Daenerys fit into this? I thought you two had become … close,” said Davos diplomatically. “You confessed yourself to her in so many words.”

“Look, I didn’t intend for any of this to happen. Instead of discussing the women in my life, we should be discussing the Night King---”

“You have to think beyond the war,” said Davos. “Who do you plan to have by your side when this is all over? These are questions that need answering.”

“You don’t think I know that?” said Jon, sinking into a chair and rubbing his forehead. “You think I don’t know what a complete mess this is? Daenerys … I was drawn to her because of her conviction that she would make the world a better place, she is … remarkable, but Sansa…” He sighed heavily and his hands shook with the weight of what he was trying to express. “Something just _happens_ when I’m with her.”

“Aye, you argue,” said Davos.

“Because she drives me _mad,”_ said Jon, exasperated. “But.” His eyes fluttered. “She stirs something in me, something no one else can, it’s in my bones, I---” Jon’s mouth moved silently as he tried to articulate the extent of his feelings, tried to articulate how he not only needed but yearned for her faith in him, her trust in him, how her presence pulled all of his focus to it, how he wanted to do better and be better for her, how she wasn’t only remarkable but extraordinary and stubborn and admirable, how she ignited him as much as she incensed him, how she was everything he loved about the North.

“It’s powerful,” he said simply. “And it’s not something I can control.”

“By the sounds of it you don’t want to either.”

Jon didn’t answer. He didn’t know if he was ready to confirm that since he knew he couldn’t truthfully deny it either. 

“You can’t stay here,” said Davos.

Jon stared at Davos incredulously.  “This is my home and these are my countrymen. I will not abandon my people for something as petty as this.”

“It isn’t petty and you know it,” said Davos. “If you stay here then whatever it is between you and Lady Sansa will continue, I can see it already, and that will cause more damage to your people, which is something neither you nor she would be able to bear.” Davos sighed.  “You have bent the knee to the Dragon Queen, you have renounced your crown, and yet your countrymen will not follow her, they will not yield to her, they understand her authority but they do not recognize it and they certainly do not welcome it. A marriage between the two of you would rectify these issues, your presence in King’s Landing notwithstanding. I daresay what will happen if the wrong people found out about what’s been happening.”  

                Davos’ gruffness disappeared slightly at seeing the anguish in Jon’s expression. “If you tell me I’m wrong, I’ll leave you now and I won’t bring this up again.”

                Jon looked at Davos but said nothing.

 

_____________

 

The activity in the courtyard was even more hectic than usual as the blacksmiths worked frantically on forging weapons, as food was brought into the crypt. It was the kind of activity that flurried when time before whatever event, a large feast, a newborn, an impending battle, had just about run out.

Sansa was looking for Arya to tell her she was about to head to the Godswood but spotted her hanging around the blacksmith, Gendry, their gazes never leaving each other and so she decided to leave her be. She figured Arya had a sixth sense and would notice she was gone without Sansa having to tell her. She didn’t want an interrogation anyway; Arya would be able to see Jon all over her face, see her nervousness and her longing, her resentment and her frustration. Arya had been suspicious since she’d overheard Sansa and Jon yelling in her chambers and she expected she would be confronted about it whenever there was time to spear.

What Sansa hadn’t expected was Bran in the wood.

“Are you out here alone?” she asked.

“I’m never alone,” he said calmly. “Not anymore.”

                She nodded, at a loss for what to say. “What were you doing?”

                “Watching,” he replied. “Seeing.”

                Sansa cocked her head, intrigued. “What have you been seeing?”

                He looked at her. “Death. The Army of the Dead will be here by morning.”

                Panic surged throughout Sansa’s body. “Well we have to go warn everyone, we have to prepare.”

“They already know. They’ve been preparing for hours.”

“Still, I should be with them, so should you, we should help. We should be with Arya, we should be with everyone.”

                “If you’d like to. If there are goodbyes you need to say,” said Bran. “ _’I’ve survived many things, Sansa, but I will not be able to survive the death of you.’_ ”

She looked at Bran, her eyebrows furrowed in both alarm and utter confusion, her skin prickled with chills at hearing those words again. “Did --- did you hear that or did you see that?”

He regarded her. “Does it matter?”

“Why would you say that to me? What else have you seen?” Sansa paused, frightened by what she was about to ask, terrified by the answer. “Do we survive this?”

                Bran didn’t say anything for a few moments. “There is more than one battle we need to survive, Sansa.”

 

_________________

 

A knock on the door. Daenerys turned to it. “Come in.”

                Jon entered, his body composed but his expression agitated. It had been a while since Jon came to her chambers and Daenerys knew why he’d come now. Although he stayed on the other side of the room, she felt a certain satisfaction that on the eve of battle he came to visit her.

“The dead are coming,” she said matter-of-factly.

“They’ll be here by nightfall.”

“We’re as ready as we’re ever going to be,” she said. “All that’s left to do now is say our gratitudes before the time comes.”

Jon nodded, as confident as he could be in their strategy and yet not comforted by their preparedness.

Daenerys tilted her head. “They _did_ come sooner than expected.”

He gave a small, morose smile. “The dead don’t tire.”

“No I suppose not.” Daenerys sighed. “Well one way or the other, after tonight my armies won’t be here long and your sister won’t have to worry so much about the food stores.”

Jon looked at her, feeling both amused and put off by her facetiousness. “I’ve spoken to Sansa about being more …” He gesticulated. _“Cordial.”_

“Cordial?” Daenerys repeated, an eyebrow raised, her satisfaction turning to irritation. “Is ‘cordial’ what a subject needs to be toward her Queen?”

“Maybe that’s not the right word for a subject to a queen,” said Jon, walking closer to Daenerys. “But it is for a sister to her family by marriage.”

Daenerys’ lips parted.   

“If you’ll have me. “

                At those words, a rush of vindication flooded Daenerys as a sense of triumph tinged with happiness made her smile. She walked over to Jon, bringing his hands into hers.

                “I journeyed all the way to the end of the world for you and your war, Jon Snow,” she said. “Of course I’d have you.”

                She leaned in to kiss him ---

                Another knock on the door. “Khaleesi---”

                Jorah paused at seeing Daenerys and Jon a few inches away from each other, their hands clasped together, and he lowered his head. “My apologies, I---”

                “No, it’s fine,” said Jon, taking a step back from Daenerys. “You two need to talk and I need to do some talking of my own.”

                He kissed Daenerys on the hand before walking away, her fingers reaching out to him as he left.  When Jon closed the door, Daenerys smiled at Jorah, beckoning him to come farther into the room.

“I haven’t seen much of you lately, Jorah,” she said.

“Aye,” he agreed.  “I am always here for you, Khaleesi, but I wanted to give you time with your new council, I didn’t want to overstep.”

“There is always room for you by my side, Ser Jorah,” said Daenerys. “Always.” When he only nodded, Daenerys continued.

“I take it you heard about the proposition Tyrion and Varys proposed.”

“I did.”

“He just accepted,” said Daenerys, failing at containing her glee. “That was why he was here.”

“You two make a good match.”

Daenerys narrowed her eyes. There was something off about Jorah’s tone, something strained, something _polite._

“What is it?”

When Jorah didn’t answer, Daenerys’ tone hardened. “What _is_ it?”

“I’ve loved you for a long time,” said Jorah after a few moments. “And I will always love you. Always.”

Daenerys blinked. This was not what she had expected to hear. His feelings for her were no secret but they were never spoken about, they were never considered.

“I don’t say this because I’m hurt by your decision,” he assured. “I’m saying this because I know what it looks like to be in love with you. I recognized it in Drogo. I recognized it in Daario.” He paused. “Jon has faith in you, Khaleesi. He truly believes in the world you want to make. He admires you, he may even be in awe of you. I recognize that.”

Daenerys felt her mood turn for the second time in a few minutes. Her jaw clenched.

“But he’s not in love with me,” she said. “That’s what you’re suggesting?”

_How dare he?_

Jorah paused, his lips twitching nervously. “Not like he loves another,” he said.

_He sees it too._ She wished he hadn’t said anything. When she thought she was the only one who noticed, it was easier to convince herself she was mistaken.

“He will marry you and he will want to be happy with you but the North will always be in him. _She_ will always be in him.”

Daenerys spoke over him. “Why are you telling me this? You don’t want me to marry him?”

“On the contrary, I agree with Lords Tyrion and Varys,” said Jorah. “But your best interest will always come first for me and I don’t want you to spend the rest of your life baffled by the slight lonesomeness you will feel. I want you to be prepared. I want you to understand his position and yours.”

                Daenerys didn’t respond. It was Jorah who didn’t understand either of their positions, it was Jorah who didn’t understand that Daenerys demanded victory in all aspects of her life.  

__________________

 

Sansa sat silently on Jon’s desk chair as he stood a few feet across from her equally quiet but with an air of pained anxiety to his stillness while hers radiated not with rage, as he’d anticipated, but with an air of remoteness, like she was slowly turning into herself, removing her presence from his reach.

It worried him.

                Sansa felt herself retracting but it was the only way she could navigate her feelings. Her emotions were at war with themselves and it was entirely Jon’s fault. The dead were at their doorstep and she’d had shared a meal with Theon, she’d had spoken to Bran more or less, she couldn’t find Arya but knew she would see her before tomorrow’s nightfall and so she had wanted to spend this night with him, this last moment of peace before it was ripped away by a battle that could last for days, that could kill them all. But he had decided to wed Daenerys Targaryen and he had decided to tell her about it during this last night of peace and Sansa wanted to murder him she was so enraged but she still wanted to just _be_ with him.

                Abruptly she stood up and Jon flinched involuntarily.

“The army of the dead will be here s---”

“I know,” said Jon, eyeing her earnestly.  Sansa couldn’t even stand to look at him

“Don’t.” She gritted her teeth and took a deep breath. If she slapped him she’d feel better, if she slapped him she’d feel worse. “Don’t.” All she knew was that he had to live, he had to make it through the battle. _And then he’d be hers…_ “Don’t die,” she said finally.           

Jon held his breath, waiting for that frosty rage to erupt and devour him. He’d prepared himself for it. She walked past Jon to the door, opening it to leave. She fully intended to walk out without saying anything else, to not even look back at him, but she couldn’t stop it from happening, she couldn’t control herself.

“A dead groom makes for a very grim wedding.”

                She opened the door wider to walk out and maybe Jon should’ve let her, maybe he should’ve accepted the breakage of their relationship as a consequence to his decision; undoubtedly, it was, in part, why he’d made the decision --- an attempt to sever the link they had with each other that he had with no other Stark, with no other person, the link that was as dangerous as it was innate, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t stop the feeling from happening, not on this night, not when he was where he wanted to be on a night like this one.

                He pushed the door closed and turned her to him. “I had to,” he said breathlessly.

“I don’t want to hear it.” She shook her head. “You made your choice.”

“I chose the North, I _had_ to.”

Sansa moved out of his hold and walked farther into the chambers, pacing back and forth. “How could you choose the North when you’re choosing to _leave_ the North?”

Jon shook his head. “Sansa---”

“Father left and he died!” Did he forget this? Did Daenerys stupefy him that much? “Robb left and he died. My mother left and she’s dead and you---”

Jon strode up to her. “I don’t think you appreciate how complicated this is!”

“Oh how could I? I’m just a _stupid_ girl who knows nothing,” Sansa snapped.

“That’s not what I meant and you _know_ that, Sansa,” said Jon curtly.

“I don’t know anything. I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

                He gasped as if he’d been struck in the gut. “Yes you do,” he whispered.

                Sansa didn’t say anything.

                “Sansa.” His voice broke. He walked even closer to her, holding her hands on his, rubbing her thumb back and forth across her fingers. “You don’t mean that.”

                She didn’t and she’d regretted saying it as soon as she did but she was too wounded to tell him otherwise.

                “I can’t _stay_ here,” he said. “Can’t you see that?”

“Just admit that you don’t want to,” said Sansa more calmly than she felt. “That you’d rather choose her than your own people.”

“I didn’t choose her,” said Jon. “I just couldn’t choose you.”

Sansa felt tears brim her eyes but she blinked them back. “I don’t know what that means.”

“Of course you do.”

Jon pressed his forehead against Sansa’s, their breathing ragged and loud, his hands on either side of her face, her hands holding onto his wrists.

It was time to walk away, time to let her walk away, to kiss her on the forehead and turn his back to her, letting her go, but it was happening: the uncontrollable pull, the overpowering desire to meld with her, to give in to the tension that maddened them both to the point of argument.

Jon waited for Sansa to move out of his embrace, silently begging her to leave as desperately as he begged her to stay but she couldn’t bring herself to, not now, not when he wasn’t _Her Grace_ ’s yet, not when her whole body trembled with longing.

 Tentatively, Jon pressed his lips against hers. Sansa recoiled slightly, confused yet wanting and so didn’t move and rather, leaned forward, when Jon brought his lips to hers for a second time. It was a curious sensation --- they both felt ignited as their passion for the other roiled within them, urging them to consume the other, but they both practiced restraint in favour of savouring a moment both so bitter and so sweet. They pulled away slightly, his lips still brushed against hers, the breath of space allowing Sansa to exhale heavily while Jon let out a small, involuntary noise, compelling Sansa to bring her lips to his once again, her mouth opening his, the kiss a bit more fierce with the passion they’d chosen to temper. His fingers gripped her hair now and Sansa pulled him closer to her, her shoulders hunched as she welcomed his tongue.

She felt Jon’s hands on her leather straps, but he made no move to unfasten her armour. Instead he looked at her, his eyes passing over her face, studying her expression until she reddened under his stare, unfamiliar with the softness she felt, taken aback by the safety that came with it. Pressing her lips together, she moved her hands from his wrists and placed them against his chest, feeling his heart beneath her palm. The quickness of its beating startled her, it was pounding so fast it was a miracle he hadn’t passed out.

Sansa didn’t look away from his gaze as she started unfastening his jerkin; he swallowed hard when she pushed it off his shoulders and pressed his forehead against hers once more, emboldening Sansa to pull up his tunic. Her fingers skimmed his bare torso, sending a charge both through him and her, his skin heated to her touch, her hands aching to feel more of him.

Jon’s eyes searched hers and only after her slight nod did he remove her leather, inspiring a slight gasp in Sansa. He shifted his feet and Sansa allowed herself to be moved deeper into the room. Her head craned to him, she turned around, looking forward at the last possible moment, staring at the bed with a nervous excitement. Sansa closed her eyes, her back arching as the nape of her neck erupted in chills from the close proximity of Jon’s lips to her skin, his nose nestled in her hair as he began unfastening her dress with slow, deliberate pulls, as if each uncoil of lace was a question and an assurance but she knew she would open herself to him this night, if only because it would be the only night, if only because she needed one instance where she’d let it all happen.

His hands pushed the sleeves downward, his palms skating over her bare arms, as Sansa’s dress fell to the floor around her feet. He took her hand, guiding her back around to him and when he faced her again, he kissed her palm, making her lips part and her head faint. Sansa leaned forward and kissed his neck, his appreciative sigh a thrill in her chest. Her fingers started fumbling with his breeches and abruptly he put his hand over hers, moving slightly back so he could look at her. He didn’t look frightened or regretful, in fact he had a hunger in his eye matched only by his earnestness.

Knowing his hesitation had only to do with ensuring Sansa’s readiness, she took a step back but she couldn’t take another as Jon tightened his grip on her hand, unwilling to let her go, his eyes slightly panicked. She gave a small smile, blinking slowly, and eventually he loosened his hold.

Slowly she walked to the bed and without breaking her gaze with him, Sansa lay down, beckoning Jon to her. Sighing with both relief and nervousness, he joined her, bringing his lips to hers again as she reached up and tightened her fingers around his hair, bringing out a moan in him. Jon relished the moment, the sadness and the joy of it, for he wanted to choose her at least once before the dawn came and their lives changed forever.


End file.
